Please Pretend
by Igenlode Wordsmith
Summary: Before her reluctant marriage to Erik, Christine gives herself to Raoul for a few passionate hours. But what will happen ten years later, when unexpected visitors arrive at the theatre in Coney Island and the past is reawakened? And what will become of their son? Translated from the French original by Chamidontrachiva.
1. Once Upon Another Time

_(A/N: This story was originally published in French about a year ago: I am uploading this translation with the author's permission because I feel that it deserves a wider circulation. Subsequent chapters will be uploaded as and when I finish translating them. Credit for the characters and situations belongs to **Chamidontrachiva**: any infelicities in style are my own!_

_For a link to the original, see my profile. (And for my own Phantom/Love Never Dies stories, see my profile also...)_

* * *

**Please Pretend** by Chamidontrachiva

What if Christine had chosen Erik? After one final night shared with the Vicomte, she leaves for Coney Island with her husband to begin a new life there. Ten years later, the couple have a son - but unexpected guests turn up at their theatre, setting into motion a situation which is awkward to say the least...

I / Once Upon Another Time

As Christine was pushing home a final pin into the back of her hair, the door of their bedroom opened softly. Sitting in front of her dressing table in the maroon dress she had just put on, she glanced into the mirror and caught sight of her son Gustave.

He was trying to remain unseen behind the door, but he had barely crossed the threshold before a male voice could be heard from another room. "Gustave! Gustave, don't disturb your mother while she is getting dressed!"

And appearing behind Gustave, the boy's father swiftly shut the door without a glance at his wife, who was smiling in front of her mirror.

Shaking her head, she laid down her comb and rose. The bedroom was not especially large, but it was her favourite room in their apartment for obvious reasons: it was richly decorated with green curtains and beautiful tapestries, and furnished with a dressing table, a wardrobe, shelves and a magnificent bed.

She opened the door and went out into the corridor. Her son's bedroom door was open, and she paused on the threshold and knocked gravely for admission.

Gustave was sitting in the middle of his room, playing with a mechanical toy his father had made for him. When he caught sight of her, he got up to give her a kiss.

He was ten years old, but he looked younger: he was small, with rounded cheeks and a mischievous air. As his father liked to claim: "That child will come to no good" (to which Christine's retort was "Just like his papa!")

"So, did you sleep well, darling?" Christine asked, opening the window.

Outside down below there stretched Coney Island and Phantasma, their domain. She had never liked fairgrounds, nor had Erik either, for obvious reasons (given that during his childhood he had been displayed as a monster at travelling shows), and on their arrival they had first of all bought the Theatre. Afterwards, due to lack of money with which to operate the latter, they had invested in the construction of Phantasma, the amusement park. And once Christine's singing talent had become recognised and she had achieved worldwide fame, they'd had enough money to run both enterprises.

Without wasting time on the big wheels and the multicoloured tents, she turned back to her son who had launched into a long monologue about his dreams of the previous night.

"...and the monkey insisted I should tap-dance."

Christine nodded gravely and asked if he had seen his father.

"Not since he stopped me coming to see you this morning," Gustave said sulkily, fiddling with his toy in an attempt to take it to pieces, "but I think he's gone to meet someone."

Raising her brows, she went to check the rest of the apartment. Decorated tastefully throughout, it consisted of a large salon, three bedrooms, Erik's workroom in the basement, bathrooms and a large office shared by herself and her husband. But he was not to be found in any of these rooms. She even went so far as to knock on the workroom door without daring to open it, but there was no reply.

For a moment she thought about putting her head round the door to check, but decided against it.

Erik had always been very secretive and liked to have a private place where he could hide himself away to compose, and she had always respected his wishes in this... even if she hankered after the time when he had composed in front of her, saying that he had need of her presence for inspiration. Sighing, she recalled the early days of this strange marriage of theirs.

;;

Those first months had been dreadful. Consumed by guilt, remorse or hate - sometimes all three at the same time - she had not wanted to speak to the husband who had forced her into marriage against her will. The Phantom-who-was-not-a-phantom had allowed her to shut herself up alone for three days in the room which he had assigned to her in his lair. On the third day he had breached her privacy to announce that they had to leave. Since everyone in the Opéra was searching for them as a result of the murders of Piangi and Buquet, he had found them a room in a hotel until such time as they would be able to catch a boat or train and flee far from Paris.

All her cries and protests were in vain: he had dragged her with him to this hotel, which she discovered at once to be a filthy place. Their room was even worse: bare of furniture save for one bed in the centre of the room, it was a constant reminder that soon she would have to fulfil her marital duties.

He had been very courteous towards her and had played the part of a perfect gentleman, spending the nights on a mattress on the floor. During the day she shut herself into stubborn silence, dreaming of Raoul.

The situation had rapidly become quite impossible. To be shut up so close to her for hours on end was a torment to Erik, who was unable to compose and spent the whole day checking the small ads and the price of train tickets. He spent hours sitting and watching her rock herself backwards and forwards with a vacant stare.

And one day, able to bear it no longer, he had seated himself beside her on the bed and begun to talk.

He had explained how difficult and unpleasant the situation was for him. He had apologised to her for his clumsy and awkward manner. He had reminded her that they had made an agreement, and that she was obliged to honour her part since he had fulfilled his part of the bargain by sparing Raoul. Finally, seeing that she had come far enough out of her comatose state to meet his eyes, he had promised her diffidently that he would never seek to force matters between them and that he would give her as much time as she needed to accept their new relationship and all that this implied - however difficult it might become for him to restrain himself.

Christine had nodded and choked down her sobs along with her grief, burying the image of Raoul and the life they might have had together deep in a corner of her heart.

From that day onwards life became less painful for Erik, and to all appearances for Christine also. She made an effort, served him the meals sent up to them by the hotel every day, dressed in a more feminine and attractive manner. And - supreme joy! - each night, before laying himself down on his mattress, he would kiss her on the forehead with all the love that was in him, and she would bear it in silence. As the days passed this ceased to be an ordeal, and she would even take his hand before he left her.

And so one day he allowed her to leave the hotel, as he himself had an appointment to attend at which he would finally be able to buy what he had been dreaming of: a Theatre, far away on Coney Island.

He gave her his trust. And she could not resist the opportunity.

She went to Raoul.

She hung around outside the Opera for two hours before she saw him arrive. She forbade him to speak or to summon anyone, and she embraced him. She let him know that she was leaving and that they would probably never see each other again, and that these few hours together would be their last: an act of farewell and of unconditional love.

He rented a room for two hours and took her there, and together they forgot the rest of the world.

When it was time to leave, Christine lost all her will and courage and clung to her lover with the force of despair.

"Christine..." Resigned to their fate, he tried to make her see reason.

But she had forgotten her promise and all her good resolutions. And so he had to detach her hands gently from his shirt-front, murmuring in her ear:

_Little Lotte, I beg you, forgive me  
ah, what fools we once were  
Long ago in our youth ...  
But now I must go, our choices are made  
May your angel of music watch over you now  
And give you what I wish I gave you somehow_

And he went with her back to the Opera, Christine having forbidden him to ask anything about the location to which Erik had carried her off.

On her return to the hotel, Erik could plainly see that she was distraught, but preferred not to enquire; she had come back to him, and that was the vital thing. He announced that they had just become the owners of the Theatre and that they were about to leave.

That was the last time she saw Raoul.

;;

Returned to present-day reality, Christine moved away from the door to her husband's workroom. She checked that Gustave was still playing in his own room, and sat down next to the bookcase in the office to immerse herself in a volume.

But she could not help thinking of those early days of their marriage and of the trials they had had to endure to get this far.


	2. Once Upon Another Time (cont)

**Chapter 1 continued:**

When she had finished chapter eleven, she laid the table, played for a while with Gustave and then immersed herself once more in her book. When the clock struck five, she got up and called Gustave, who failed to answer, being too busy disembowelling the inner workings of his toy onto the living-room carpet.

She made a little face at the thought of Erik's reaction when he caught sight of it, and the worries which she had forgotten while reading resurfaced. Just where had her husband gone off to without saying anything?

She remembered only too well the last time he had disappeared, and hoped never to have to relive that anguish...

;;

It had been a short time after their arrival at Coney. The Theatre had been in poor condition and they (chiefly Erik, as Christine had not taken his project much to heart: she had been too depressed and lovesick for Raoul to give thought to her future with her husband) had been obliged to hire workmen.

It had been barely a week since the beginning of the work, and it was promising to be quite expensive, which put Erik into a bad mood. Even though his dream was coming true - he had a wife and would soon have a theatre - the lack of money had him beside himself; he could not believe that this little problem could hold him up now. What was more, their relationship had not changed since the hotel in Paris. She would wait for him at home, sitting in a chair, sometimes with a book, silent and abstracted, and he would sit opposite and try to make conversation. But their departure from France had had such an effect on her that she no longer made an effort, and after a number of attempts which were totally ignored he got up and left the room. Then she would hear the organ - the first item to be installed in their new dwelling - roaring out its sepulchral power throughout the whole apartment.

Erik was boiling inwardly: this was not the existence he had dreamed of.

Oh, he knew of course that it would be difficult; after all, in forcing her to choose between himself and Raoul he knew very well that she would not soon forgive him.

But to see her like this mortified him. This was no longer the Christine with whom he had fallen in love, his angel of music. No, it was an empty, distasteful shell which was slowly fading. Moreover, since the night of "Don Juan Triumphant" she no longer sang.

And so one fine day, early in the morning, he left their home and did not come back.

Christine woke late and waited for him to bring her meal, as he usually did, putting it down outside her door. But when she opened the latter she found no plate there. After waiting further, she decided to leave her room. She searched through the apartment, which was still foreign to her: since their arrival she had not bothered to take a real look at it.

But no one was there.

And so she paused on the threshold of her husband's room, hesitating, and opened it cautiously for the first time.

It was as if she was back in the dwelling by the lake, but on a smaller scale. The great black four-poster bed, the desk made in dark wood and covered with music, and the candles all intimidated her... and the majestic organ, which reigned over the rest of the room from a raised dais.

On one of the bedside tables (for there were two) was a book, a pen, and musical scores that threatened to topple due to their sheer number. On the second, clean and gleaming softly in the light of the candles, there lay a single rose encircled with a black ribbon.

Her heart contracted when she realised that this bedroom was destined for her. It was the room of a married couple, and when she took a second, close look, little details leapt to her eye. The second chair, close to the organ. The space which had been left in the wardrobe. A pink ribbon tied to the doorknob. A mirror, brush and pots laid out with care on a little dressing-table.

She pictured Erik, lovingly setting out all these belongings in the hopes that she would soon be sharing this room with him - while she had been motionless and silent, dreaming of that Other in the room next door... She felt suddenly unworthy of so much care, and tears came to her eyes with the desire to redeem herself.

When Erik came back - late - that evening, he saw in passing that the door of Christine's room had been carefully shut. He sighed in frustration and entered his room, closing the door quietly behind him in order not to wake her, without lighting a candle. Taking off his black gloves, he tossed them onto the dressing-table and unbuttoned his jacket before hanging it over the back of the chair. It was at this point he realised that there was a sound of soft, deep breathing coming from the bed.

Paralysed, he turned slowly towards the bed and made out in the darkness the shape of his wife asleep on the coverlet.

Shaken, he found the courage to approach her gently without on any account touching her; for he had no confidence in his ability to control himself. For too long already he'd had to content himself with a kiss on her forehead, and since their arrival at Coney he had not even dared to ask that of her.

But yielding to the adage "I can resist anything except temptation", he passed a timorous hand over her loosened hair. He closed his eyes, savouring this contact (and he had no gloves on! his bare skin was against her hair, and it was wonderful), his breath coming quickly.

And a little hand inserted itself between his fingers and Christine's head.

She would thrust him away, call him a monster and never speak to him again. He had ruined everything for one moment of pleasure...

But no. She stroked his long skeletal fingers, and he let out a little groan, leaning against the bed to avoid collapsing entirely. And so she came and set her arms gently around him.

Frozen, he allowed her to wrap her arms around his body and lay her head against his chest. He couldn't believe it. He dared not stir for fear that at the slightest movement she might recoil screaming... or that the dream would end and he would wake up.

But she did not break off their embrace (or, rather, her embrace - for his arms lay slack upon the bed). She did something which - oh God - shattered all the proprieties he had established and all his good resolutions: she kissed him. He felt her voluptuous lips on his own thin and shrivelled lips, and it seemed to him that with this thrilling contact his own became more attractive and more human.

From that moment, he was completely undone. He allowed himself to clasp her tightly and to return her kisses and her caresses passionately, and he did not cease until sleep overwhelmed them both. And then he curled up against the girl and clasped her against him for fear that she might vanish when daylight came.

;;

"Mother!"

Christine jumped, and sprang to her feet, almost knocking over the table as she thrust back her chair. She had fallen asleep while reading - and for quite some time, she realised on glancing at the living-room clock. Gustave was at the window, and was balancing precariously on the little balcony which separated him from the void below.

His mother ran to drag him away from the window, calling out "Gustave, for the love of heaven! Whenever there is any stupidity to be committed, I can always be certain that it will come into your head to try!"

She dragged him away from the gulf and set him down on safe ground, scolding him, but the boy took no notice. "But it's Father. Look, he's coming back, I can see him down below!"

And at that very moment the bell on the entrance door sounded, and they heard footsteps on the stairs.

Erik appeared in the living-room dressed all in black as was his wont, carrying a heavy parcel under his arm. His white mask contrasted with the rest of his appearance, but Gustave was used to it: he had seen his father thus ever since he was little, and knew what deformity lay behind the mask. Living so retired from the world and surrounded by fairground workers, he wondered at nothing, and since he had never known anything else he found his father's face perfectly normal: at no time did the word "ugly" have any relevance to that face. When he talked about his parents, he always described his mother as looking like a princess and his father as "so beautiful". And no one was about to contradict him on that point... not where their employer was concerned.

"Father!" Gustave cried, making a leap for the parcel.

Erik's gaze, which a few moments earlier had been sombre, lit up, and he held the parcel up high with one hand. While his son jumped to try to catch it, he stepped sideways towards Christine and kissed her.

"Yuck."

The boy's mother ruffled his hair, putting away her book. "When you're in love, darling, you won't find it disgusting at all."

At these words Gustave ran off yelling, and Erik caught Christine round the waist, an enormous smile lighting up his face. He still had hold of the parcel.

"Where have you been all this time?" Christine reproached him, turning round.

"At Phantasma. I had an appointment to meet a certain Mr. Karl, who can supposedly fit himself into a suitcase no larger than this parcel. So I'd asked him to come and give me a demonstration... well, you know what a business it can be to recruit new acts..."

But this answer didn't satisfy her. He had brought it out without even thinking and his heart was not in it. However, she made herself smile and pointed to the parcel, which he was trying to conceal with his cloak. "Do I take it, then, that Mr. Karl is in this parcel?"

He laughed, and turned the conversation aside.

"Did you miss me, then? Forgive me if my absence worried you... " He took her tenderly by the waist and clasped her against him while burying his face in her neck. "Then I won't speak of it any more. But meanwhile, I'm absolutely ravenous..."

Christine could see perfectly well that he had changed the subject, and said no more. Their relationship was somewhat ambiguous in that respect, and she had no wish to stir up trouble.

Their marriage was based on two very simple rules: obey me and love me, and in return I shall ensure that your son is well-educated and that your talent is developed to its full potential. And so it had been for ten years: she was his, body and soul, and in return he had made her life into a model of success and family harmony.

So she smiled, and took him off towards the dining-room. When he reappeared after washing his hands, the mysterious parcel had disappeared.

The atmosphere at the meal-table was a merry one, but Christine's good humour was rather forced. When it was dark and Gustave had gone to bed, Erik shut himself up in his workroom for an hour. But no music could be heard through the door.

When he came to bed, she made the excuse of having indigestion in order to get up in her turn.

She tiptoed as far as the living-room, looked behind the sofa and in the drawers, but the mysterious parcel was nowhere to be found. Halting at the slightest creak, she headed for the workroom, praying that the door would not be locked.

The handle turned without any obstruction and she pushed the door ajar. A ray of moonlight from behind her came to illuminate the room, plunged in utter darkness. And in its wake, there was the famous parcel, lying opened on a table.

Christine came slowly closer and bent over the contents.

It was only papers. She closed her eyes, disappointed at having been so disobedient over so little.

But at the moment she was about to turn away, a name - printed in what appeared to be a newspaper - leapt out to her eye. She took the article in her hands in order to assure herself that it was indeed real: but no, she was not dreaming.

Under a black and white photo in which he appeared was written out in full: "Raoul de Chagny soon to set foot on famous Coney Island"...


	3. Are You Ready to Begin?

_(A/N: This story was originally published in French about a year ago: I am uploading this translation with the author's permission because I feel that it deserves a wider circulation. Subsequent chapters will be uploaded as and when I finish translating them. Credit for the characters and situations belongs to **Chamidontrachiva**: any infelicities in style are my own!_

_For a link to the original, see my profile. (And for my own Phantom/Love Never Dies stories, see my profile also...)_

**II / ****Are you ready to begin?**

The next morning, Erik was concerned to find his wife so silent. She seemed immersed in her own thoughts. On his own he set Gustave his schoolwork for the day, and gave him his usual piano lesson. The boy was very talented, and his father was filled with pride when he had finished his interpretation of Schubert. But he scoffed at his own surprise: given a diva for a mother and a magnificent composer for a father, who could have expected anything else? Gustave had music running in his blood.

But this paternal pride went nowhere towards calming his fears on the subject of his wife.

Whatever he might say, Christine remained the sole concern of his existence. Of course the arrival of a son had given him some reassurance about their marriage, since Gustave's existence bound the young woman more surely to him than any threat he might make. Later he had learned to care for the boy and to show affection to him, but if it ever became necessary for him to choose between his wife and his son, he would not hesitate for a second.

And so the lesson he gave Gustave quietened his misgivings only temporarily, and as soon as it was over, he sent Gustave to play in the garden, promising himself that he would find a governess for the boy, and rushed off in search of his wife.

He found her hanging around outside the door of his workroom, and concealed himself in order to see what she could be up to in the corridor.

Back and forth she went, pacing up and down in front of the door, hesitating with lowered head and hands twisted together. He flattened himself against the corner of the corridor, not so much as daring to breathe.

For years he had been watching for some sign of rebellion, some act on her part that would reawaken their past struggles. But she had never done anything whatsoever to provoke his primal instincts to reappear... like that final night at the Opera, for example. His murderous instincts had got the upper hand, and he had almost strangled de Chagny. And then at the last moment she had kissed him, and unconditional love had dawned in him and overcome all other emotions; that same love which had led him to set the Vicomte free and to begin an exemplary new life together with his wife.

But now he regretted having let Raoul go. That little fool had not deserved his mercy, and it had been cowardly of him not to have taken matters all the way.

After all these years of calm marriage, Erik was beginning to find it ever so slightly tedious.

He regretted the loss of his former murderous instincts, for it was that overwhelming force that had given birth to the extraordinary passion that he had felt for Christine. It was that fury that had driven him to desire her more and more, and to do anything to keep her. But their lives had become routine, and little by little he could feel it withering away.

For Christine to be such a model wife was not credible. He was not deceived: he knew that she was not madly in love with him. And in this life of theirs, how could she be? Hadn't their most cherished moments together been those which had resulted from suffering and perils?

Thus, her suspicious activity in the corridor was no disappointment to him. On the contrary, a little smile dawned on his lips at the moment when she turned the handle of his office door.

Perhaps at last there would be a challenge for him in the days to come. He would be able to prove to her that she was made for him, and she would finally begin to love him - this time for good. Passionately... What a prospect!

Christine went into the office, remained barely a few moments there in the dark, then came out again, looking to left and right, with a slip of paper buried in the folds of her skirt. Then she went back into the living-room, without seeing him as she passed.

He waited for the living-room door to close before dashing into his workroom. She had been in there for only a few seconds, which meant that she had known exactly what she was looking for. And it was not difficult to guess: the de Chagny dossier had been left open on the table next to the piano, in clear view, exactly where it had been before the young woman had entered the room... with one exception.

The first article in it had disappeared.

...

The remainder of the day was gloomy and Christine took care to avoid her husband, pleading fatigue in order to shut herself up for most of the afternoon in her room. Erik observed pointedly that after her indigestion of the previous night it was hardly surprising, but let her alone. He paid not the slightest attention to Gustave but kept his eyes fixed on the closed door with a little smile on his lips.

As for the little boy, he was bored, and his mother had forbidden him to go out for a walk in the amusement park on account of the rain which was currently pouring down on Coney Island. After having lost half the pieces of his mechanical toy, he escaped from his father's attention (scarcely difficult) and went to explore the garden, not without having borrowed one of his mother's old cloaks from where they hung in the passage. And so for a moment he ran up and down brandishing over his head the cherished material spangled with raindrops, playing in the mud.

Then he caught sight of Miss Fleck at the end of the road, heading off with her quick, jerky gait towards Phantasma.

He called out to her, but the rain drowned out the sound of his voice. So he slipped beyond the boundaries of the garden and dashed off after her.

But she was going much faster than he was, and despite the downpour the roads around Phantasma were still crammed with people. Everyone was running to take refuge beneath the circus tents or in the nearest hotel, and Gustave was soon encircled by umbrellas and spattered with mud. He had lost sight of Miss Fleck.

Giving way suddenly to panic, he felt tears come to his eyes; and just as he was turning to run back as fast as his legs would carry him, he ran straight into a trouser-leg.

The trousers in question were not running around on their own, obviously; but Gustave could see only the legs of their owner. The latter set a gloved hand on the shoulder hidden beneath the cloak before exclaiming "Whoa there! Careful, young man, you'll end up hurting yourself!"

Gustave lifted his arms to free his face from the waistcoat in which it was buried, and inspected the stranger with a pair of blue eyes.

Another pair of blue eyes cast him an questioning glance. They belonged to a man of about thirty, tall, fair, elegant and expensively dressed. "Where are you running off to like that? Where are your parents?"

But Christine had taught him never to talk to strangers, and the soaking cloth that he was clutching at arm's-length was getting heavy. He ought to get back, and as quickly as possible.

He disengaged himself from the man and was preparing to make a bolt for it when a rather harsh female voice called out: "Vicomte! Vicomte, for heaven's sake, we're going to be late!"

And once again the child found himself face to face with legs... this time encased in a strict black skirt.

The lady was a good deal older than the gentleman, and Gustave wondered if they were really married to each other. She examined him for a moment, and glanced over at her unknown not-husband, indicating the boy. "But could you at least explain..."

But the shrug of the man's shoulders indicated that he had no idea, and at that moment Gustave caught sight of a well-known female silhouette approaching at a run further up the road under the rain. He ran at top speed back to his mother, losing the cloak along the way. But he was too afraid of going back towards the strangers to pick it up, and did not stop.

Just as the man bent to retrieve the garment, the woman raised her eyes to the little boy and his mother. Her mouth fell open into a perfect circle as she recognised the features of the young woman, who had turned back to scold her son without any idea that she was being thus observed.

But when Raoul de Chagny stood up, holding out her cloak, Christine was already distant; and Antoinette Giry promised herself never to tell anyone of the apparition she had just seen appearing through the rain.


	4. Dear Old Friend

_A/N: This story was originally published in French about a year ago: I am uploading this translation with the author's permission because I feel that it deserves a wider circulation. Subsequent chapters will be uploaded as and when I finish translating them. Credit for the characters and situations belongs to **Chamidontrachiva**: any infelicities in style are my own!_

_For a link to the original, see my profile. (And for my own Phantom/Love Never Dies stories, see my profile also...)_

**III / Dear Old Friend**

The next day, Erik rose early in order to prepare for the day's activities. He needed to go to the Theatre to supervise the rehearsals of the new production there.

He had invested an enormous amount of money in this project. It was at the beginning of the period when his wife had decided to behave as a wife should, and when life had become astonishingly sweet for both of them. Naturally the change in her behaviour had not taken place overnight, but it had gradually established itself as her attitude towards him became more normal, affectionate and human. She had responded to his efforts and to his love, and even if this did not mean that the young woman had fallen in love with him, at least she was no longer ill-tempered and elusive.

He had presented the purchase of the old theatre to his wife in the light of a wonderful gift, and she had had the delicacy to refrain from any comment on the significance of this present and on what he might want from her in exchange. At that time, they had been very cautious and constantly on guard against hurting one another's feelings. As a young mother constantly occupied by little Gustave, Christine was often tired, and Erik was full of attentions towards her, scarcely able to believe that this child could indeed be his own and that he constituted the symbol of their new happy life and their mutual affection.

With all this, the Phantom should have been happy. At last he had what he had always wanted: a relatively affectionate Christine first of all, a child who secured their bond, a normal, orderly life where his deformity was never treated as a monstrosity, and an old theatre filled with dreams of success.

But strangely enough, despite all that he had accomplished, Erik was not entirely satisfied. Something was lacking.

At first he had not been able to realise the source of this absence, this great void that began to take up more and more of his life. Then he realised: what he found hard to bear was the waiting.

It was far too long since his wife had sung for him. The last time he had heard her was when she had been on stage at the Opera Garnier in Paris, performing music of his own composition with the voice of an angel. But that supreme delight had become a distant memory, soon submerged by the waves of problems brought in the wake of their flight and difficult relationship. The young soprano had never so much as opened her mouth to sing for him since, and he was suffering dreadfully for it.

When he heard her sing, in addition to the ecstasy that her marvellous voice brought him he experienced an immense sensation of pride. Her overwhelming talent reminded him constantly that he alone had created it. It was he and no other who had formed that angelic voice. Over the young woman's singing he exercised a degree of total control that he possessed over no other part of her life.

Her voice demonstrated to him that he had been of use to her, indispensable in fact. Just as he had had need of her. As he always needed her.

This sense of being needed reassured and fulfilled him; but at this point in their relationship, he had neither her song nor the sense of legitimacy which it brought. In order to be able to hear her sing as soon as possible, he had done everything he could to hasten the works. And he had succeeded in pulling off the renovations in record time.

His Theatre was magnificent. It was one of the most luxurious theatres in Coney Island, recognisable by its baroque style and its small dimensions. The building was not large, but pleasantly intimate in size. And when Christine sang there for the first time, under the pseudonym of Yermer, their success was assured.

People thronged to hear her sing, at first in famous operas and later on in her husband's own compositions - a husband who remained in the shadows and published anonymously in order to avoid media exposure. Moreover, he did not really let Christine expose herself to the media either. The couple were surrounded by mystery, which the press on the whole found enchanting. They were dubbed with the strange nickname of "Mr and Mrs Y".

;;

Erik was in a hurry therefore to get back to their Theatre when his wife, not yet dressed, opened the door of her room and came to join him in the living-room, still dark.

He pretended not to see her and continued pulling on his great black coat.

Christine's slender arms slipped around his waist as he was adjusting the collar. "Wouldn't you rather stay here with me?" she cajoled, in a suggestive tone which she used only rarely.

His heart exploded with joy deep within him, and he repressed a rush of love and of absolute tenderness. Wasn't this what he had always dreamt of?

But he knew very well what his cunning wife wanted: to keep him here and stop him going to seek out the Vicomte. He could have undeceived her and said - sincerely to boot - that he had not had the slightest intention of doing so. But he said nothing, for he was supposedly unaware of what was going on.

He was not disappointed at her attempt at manipulation; she had lived with him for many years, and it was not surprising that she would have learnt some of his tricks. And after all, he too was wily; they were well suited. Besides, his thoughts of the previous day, when he had caught her rummaging in his office, had hold of him again.

_Let's see, Christine,_ he thought, _do you really want to start playing this game with me? Very well, I'm ready. And I shall take all the pleasure in the world in winning._

He contented himself with pressing her hand and freeing himself from her embrace with a little smile - an anticipatory smile akin to that of a wolf crossing the path of a doe in the woods.

"Forgive me, darling, but I have work to do this morning. I must hurry to the Theatre to play my part as director there."

He crammed onto his head a broad-brimmed black hat which hid his mask. The journalists must not learn that the director of the Theatre and his associate who owned the amusement parks were one and the same person - it was a question of credibility. If masked eccentrics were accepted in amusement parks, it was completely otherwise in the realm of the opera.

Christine pouted her lips a little, and for an instant he was tempted to stay.

She was so beautiful with that little childish look, long ago abandoned when she had taken up the airs of a well-born lady. With her brown curls and her white nightdress, she seemed younger and more vulnerable than normal.

It was a long time since he had seen her like this...

Yet again, he rejoiced over the arrival of the Vicomte. Thanks to him, Christine would be putting out considerable efforts to win this game. To conquer her would be all the more pleasurable in consequence.

"You're sure you don't want me to come with you?" she tried, without much hope.

He smiled in the dim light, but his crafty air escaped her notice.

"But of course, if it means that much to you! After all I can't refuse a chance to have you lovingly at my side... You can meet me at the Theatre later this morning, when you are ready."

Surprised, she remained silent for a few seconds before nodding her head firmly. A plan was being prepared beneath those dark curls.

"Very well. I'll bring Gustave, it will be an outing for him. After yesterday's incident, I'd prefer to have him close to me."

She kissed his cheek quietly before finishing: "I'll see you soon, my dear."

;;

Raoul was uneasy.

It didn't happen to him very often, but on this occasion he had to admit it. Sitting in his hotel room, he had no desire to see Madame Giry, and still less her talkative daughter. He had spent the whole morning seated in an uncomfortable armchair, gazing into space, trying to remember.

He would never have believed that one day his memory would fail him so badly.

It was a question of a detail, a tiny detail but one that changed everything. And he was incapable of remembering it.

Annoyed with himself, he twisted a coin furiously between his fingers, and from time to time turned his head to examine again the old cloak laid out on the bed.

It was a cloak of a style no longer in fashion which had seen much wear. Although it was not luxurious, it was well-cut and was undoubtedly feminine. The colour - a dark green - was a little faded, but it must once have been a flamboyant and well kept garment. And in the right-hand pocket, there was a more recent scrap of paper with an unknown name on it.

After having met the strange little boy in the street, he had recovered this cloak, which the child had forgotten on the ground. Initially he had paid no attention to this and had simply picked it up as a reflex action, with the idea of giving it back or getting rid of it as soon as he got back to the hotel.

But when he was in his room again, it came to him in a flash.

He recognised this cloak. He had seen it before, being worn by someone in a hotel room - a much less luxurious hotel than this, but it was undoubtedly that context that had sparked the memory.

But despite turning it over and over in his mind until the middle of the night, he couldn't pin down that elusive memory. It tantalised at the edge of his mind, came and went, and just as he thought he'd finally remembered it, he lost track of it.

Where had he seen that cloak?

It could not but have been worn by a fairly rich girl, of medium height. Not a child, but not yet a mature woman, as the cut and the slender waist showed...

The coin that he was twisting between his fingers escaped and fell to the ground.

He had it.

He remembered it clearly now.

He could see himself very clearly, leading her by the hand into a mean little hotel room. She had taken off that cloak, in a timid but resolute gesture. She had folded it carefully on the chair, and he remembered how that prudent little act had touched him at the time.

Christine.

Just the mention of that name set the hairs rising at the back of his neck. For so long he had not allowed himself to think of her.

To think of her was like taking poison: he felt grief rising in him and tearing at his heart. As he envisioned all that they might have done, created and lived together, violent suffering took hold of him.

Usually, when he felt this pain, he went into the nearest bar and ordered a drink. Then another, and another, until he reached the point where he had totally forgotten the reasons which had driven him to get so drunk. It was a very effective solution.

But today he couldn't summon the strength to go out and find himself a bar of some sort.

For in ten years, Christine had never been so close by.

_Ten long years  
Living a mere facade of life  
Ten long years  
Wasting my time on smoke and noise..._

If that boy had had this cloak, then there was no doubt but that he was her son. Christine had a son. That single thought pierced him through with both pride and agony. She had had a son by that... monster. It was unbearable.

How had that man (if one could call him that) dared to touch her, he who claimed to love her? Wasn't that proof that he _could not_ love her like a human being - like Raoul himself - since he had not respected her, since he had soiled her with his corpse-like hands, his pallid skin and his deformity?

The Vicomte could not imagine for a second that Christine could have consented. But could he be blamed for that?

Raoul sat back down and began to think hard. He was going to call Madame Giry, but changed his mind. There was no need for her to know. Not yet. He would keep this wonderful secret to himself, at least for a little longer.

Instead he rang for the room attendant. He went to look for the scrap of paper he had found in the pocket of the cloak and held it out.

"Have you ever heard of _Phantasma_?" he asked.

On the paper was scrawled a number, and that strange name - doubtless an address to which the garment was to be returned if lost. As if the owner must attach importance to the cloak... doubtless it must recall memories... He no longer had any doubt; it was Christine's.

The attendant frowned in puzzlement. "Well, if it's an address then there's only one place it can be, sir. But if it's a name, then I can't help you there."

Raoul raised his eyes to the heavens in impatience. "No, it's definitely an address. Tell me..."

And so the attendant explained that Phantasma was none other than one of the chief attractions of Coney Island: it was open twenty-four hours a day, there were reduced prices for children under the age of five and it was even possible to eat there. And - much more important - he indicated where it was.

Raoul caught up his cloak, along with that of Christine, and flung himself out of the hotel. He hailed a cab and indicated the address he had been given. In less than half an hour he was there.

It really was the most impressive amusement park he had ever seen, but he attached little importance to that. In his mind he was turning over ways of finding Christine. She wasn't likely to be found behind a roundabout, or selling candy-floss.

He was about to leave and concentrate his efforts on some other trail when a poster caught his attention. On an illuminated hoarding, a large advertisement was displayed. It spoke of a large new theatre close to the amusement park.

Raoul smiled broadly. Of course. In order to find Christine, one must find the Phantom. And where better than a new opera-house to begin the search?

He was almost sure that the murderer must be hidden down in the cellars, awaiting his moment, holding his poor Christine prisoner...

He questioned a number of tourists who pointed him to the Theatre, and almost ran there.

It was closed to the public, as performances only began in the evenings, but he managed to gain access by giving his title and explaining that one of the singers had lost her cloak and that he needed to give it back to her.

"If it's one of the performers you're looking for, she'll be in the rehearsal room today," one of the backstage workers told him, pointing out the route to take.

His heart racing, he followed the directions and pushed open the door of a small hall. It was a little auditorium in which auditions seemed to be taking place. On the stage, a man was singing a famous number with all his might. In the dimly-lit hall, only a few seats were occupied.

And in the front row, eyes fixed on the stage with a serious expression, Christine sat upright, her hands on her knees.

He wanted to make a unobtrusive entrance, but the last thing he had expected was to find himself immediately face to face with her. He stopped short, jaw dropping in astonishment, and almost caught his head in the door.

Everyone turned towards him in unison, and there was a wave of disapproving shushing.

When the young woman did the same, it was a few seconds before she realised. Her features froze, her mouth forming a perfect circle.

And then she rose from her seat as if it were on fire and flung herself towards him. Before he could even exclaim he found himself outside, with Christine pulling him along through the corridors.

Once they were far away from the hall, she turned towards him.

He was expecting embraces and cries of joy. Instead, her face fell and took on a grim look. "My God, Raoul! Tell me, why have you come here? Are you completely out of your mind?"

He was a little hurt. "I'm glad to see you too, Christine."

She seemed to drop her exasperated air in an instant. "Of course I'm happy to see you. But that doesn't stop it being almost suicidal for you to come here! Don't you realise that _he_ might see you right where you are?"

He cast his eyes heavenwards. Those accursed traps. Those wretched mirrors. He had completely forgotten.

"True... so he's still roaming the cellars and the rooftops of the opera, then?"

She gave a little smile which under any other circumstances he would have found adorable. He began to reckon up and to notice the changes that ten years had made in her. Her proud bearing. Her chic, fashionable clothes. The maturity of her features... their childish roundness had gone...

"No, he has no need for that now. Things have changed. He owns this place. Why hide himself in his own building? Now the staff here are his eyes and ears... and it won't take long for them to notice that I've gone. While Gustave..."

She seemed to be trying to convince herself of the urgency of the situation. She glanced all around, but the corridors were deserted. "Oh Raoul, if he finds out that you're here, I think he'll kill you!"

With what - a magical lasso? He laughed: that would be a fine one... Raoul put a hand on her shoulder to calm her. The very fact of finding himself so close to her and being able to touch her in this way was intoxicating.

"Listen, Christine, you said it yourself: things have changed. Now that he has risen so high, killing me would be a bad idea, far too indiscreet. And now..."

But she sprang back from him as if he had burned her. "Now? Why do you talk of now? For us - there is no 'now'!"

"What do you mean?" He must have made some blunder, or a gesture out of place. Or perhaps she had suffered a blow to the head.

"Raoul, today, right now, we can do nothing. And frankly I doubt that that will change over the days to come. I'm married to him. I have a son. He is powerful and allows me very little liberty. I'm afraid nothing will be possible."

The Vicomte frowned. He hadn't made all those efforts only for this. Now that he had had happiness within his grasp, he couldn't let it slip from him without doing anything.

"It's my turn to be frank: I think he knows very well that I am here. It's been in all the newspapers. They like to write about me on account of a few gambling incidents at... well, never mind. If he knows that I'm here and has still done nothing to stop me, then he must be waiting for me to reveal myself. And that is precisely what I'm going to do."

She couldn't understand this at all. She shook her head and made signs to him to be quiet. "Raoul, please... go back where you came from, and stay alive. It's all I ask of you."

Already her name was being called at the end of the corridor. She turned and pointed to a fire exit. "Go - go now, I beg you... I love you too much to lose you again. Go..."

At her words he could not resist pulling her into his arms and kissing her passionately. Gently, she disengaged herself. "Go quickly!"

He ran to the door and drew back the bolt. "All right, very well... But if you still love me, Christine, then I'm not going to give you up as easily as that. I shall come back and show myself in full view."

She had already covered almost half the distance between her and the rehearsal room, but asked all the same: "But what are you going to do?"

He gave her a confident wink. "You'll see. I hope you'll be glad to meet some dear old friends, that's all..."


	5. Do You Have Something to Confess?

_A/N: This story was originally published in French about a year ago: I am uploading this translation with the author's permission because I feel that it deserves a wider circulation. Subsequent chapters will be uploaded as and when I finish translating them. Credit for the characters and situations belongs to Chamidontrachiva: any infelicities in style are my own!_

_For a link to the original, see my profile. (And for my own Phantom/Love Never Dies stories, see my profile also...)_

* * *

**IV / Do you have something to confess?**

Very fortunately for them, Erik had not noticed the momentary disappearance of his wife since he had left the rehearsal room to deal with a problem in the wings.

At the end of the day, they returned home and dined there in a strangely cheerful atmosphere. Christine was trying to rid herself of the feeling of betrayal which filled her every time she caught her husband's eye; thus she made great efforts to seem natural and pleasant. Gustave, who had sensed the tension which had sprung up between his parents over the last few days, was delighted with the improvement. His father even had him play the piano before sending him to bed.

But later that evening he became feverish, and Christine had to spend the night at his bedside, sleeping in the guest room, which she chose in preference to their own bedroom with the explanation that it was much closer to the child's room. Erik let this pass.

The next morning, a telegram was waiting for them.

_Passing through Coney. Shall we meet? Giry._

And an address in town followed.

Erik regarded these few words for some time longer than necessary, as if asking himself whether this reunion was down to some venture of the Vicomte's or not, and if so, what purpose it might serve. But finding no answer, he decided to see what would happen. After all, this adventure was becoming far too interesting for him to abandon it now.

Thus he replied politely that he would be delighted to see his old friend in the course of the day, at the Theatre, and that if she were staying in a hotel he could offer to lend her the neighbouring apartment for a while. Madame Giry accepted the invitation and the offer of hospitality.

Christine found herself dreading this reunion, especially after Raoul's announcement of the previous day. What scheme did he have in mind? She was condemned to wait in order to find out...

After having eaten, Erik insisted - with a certain irony in his tone - that all his family should go to change. "This is a great occasion," he announced, donning a well-cut black suit and a brand new broad-brimmed hat. "We must try not to disappoint our old friend."

And so Christine changed into an elegant dark red dress and Gustave into the sailor-suit that was the latest fashion. She asked Miss Fleck to come with them to keep an eye on Gustave, who was not yet entirely recovered; then they set off.

During the journey that took them to Phantasma, neither of them spoke. Erik was curious and excited to see how Christine and the Vicomte were going to meet again, and Christine was agonised that her husband should not discover his rival's presence, so close.

In other words, they were both completely wrong.

;;

Antoinette Giry was very punctual, and even arrived at the rendezvous ahead of time. After having given her name to the doorman, she joined them in the rehearsal room. But she was not alone: her daughter, Meg Giry, had come with her.

The mother had changed so little that one could believe the years had passed over the two of them without ever touching her; dressed as always in strict black, she had lost none of her grace and her presence. She was moved at seeing Christine again, but more so to meet Erik once more, who had been in a sense her adoptive son before he had fled Paris.

As for Meg, she had been transformed. Christine had parted from her former friend before either of them had entirely left adolescence, and thus she had changed considerably; Christine even had difficulty recognising her. The puppy-fat, the rounded cheeks and the blonde curls were gone: in their place, Meg boasted the piercing gaze she had inherited from her mother, fine features, a slim figure and pale skin.

Erik tried to get Madame Giry to say how she had managed to find them, but she remained evasive, which confirmed to him that the Vicomte was behind the whole affair.

As for Christine, she was deep in conversation with her old friend, recounting without pause everything that had happened since their separation. But Meg remained somewhat cold, as if shocked or on her guard, and Christine could not understand why. At the start, she put her behaviour down to surprise. Imagine, after all: Meg had just learned that Christine had married and had a son by the Phantom of the Opera, whom she knew as a bloody-handed murderer! It must have been a tremendous shock.

But even after many minutes of conversation had passed, she could see that Meg had not relaxed, and after a while Christine decided to ask her frankly what was wrong.

Shooting an anguished glance towards Erik, who was deep in discussion with his former protector, Meg whispered: "He's outside, by the service entrance at the back of the building. He's waiting for you. We undertook to create a diversion. When the moment is right, go to him, and we'll handle the rest."

Overwhelmed by gratitude, she felt her heart speed up with the sudden jolt of adrenalin. Meg and her mother working for Raoul - Madame Giry, who had always loved Erik, betraying him in order to help her flee with her lover! How could this be possible? What new bond connected the three of them?

But she had no success in finding any answers, and waited patiently for the opportune moment to arrive.

And it was not long: Erik went to get a bottle of wine from their store to celebrate the reunion. Madame Giry made a sign to her to slip out quickly; she had no need to do it twice.

She ran down the deserted corridor, pushed open the service entrance and found herself face to face with a cab loaded with suitcases. Raoul was waiting outside.

When he saw her he sprang towards her and took her in his arms. Then, seeming to remember that time was short, he propelled her gently towards the door of the vehicle.

But Christine wouldn't let him. She stopped and demanded, her voice trembling, "Wait, Raoul! Can you tell me where we're going?"

For a moment he seemed disconcerted by her hesitation. But he got hold of himself and announced cheerfully, as if it were the most obvious thing, "To Paris, darling. Oh, don't worry about luggage, we'll have time to buy whatever you need when we get there..."

But Christine didn't move. He climbed into the cab and held out his hand for her to follow him, but she shook her head, looking unhappy.

"Forgive me, Raoul... I'm terribly, terribly sorry, but I can't leave like this. I'm-"

But before she could finish her explanation, a small voice from behind her called "Mother?"

She turned in time to see Gustave's pale face through the door - quickly followed by that of Miss Fleck, whose eyes widened with surprise before she vanished to inform her employer.

Seized with panic, she thrust Raoul further into the cab, stammering out: "Quickly! He'll be here any minute! Leave while you can - hurry!"

But it was too late. The door opened wide, and there was Erik, his eyes icy and his face set, Miss Fleck with Gustave in tow, and Meg Giry and her mother looking unhappy.

Erik advanced upon his opponent, who was trying to shrink into the vehicle, a task which his height made difficult. "What a splendid day!" he pronounced at last, breaking the deafening silence which had descended. "Why, it's full of reunions with old friends. Friends we had long thought dead and buried."

Raoul decided to play humble. He touched an imaginary hat before announcing "I was just leaving..."

His rival nodded, his attitude as rigid as ever. "Indeed, I think that would be a very good idea. And I advise you not to return."

And in a final humiliation, he slammed the door of the cab on the nose of its occupant before motioning to the driver to move off.

Christine, a powerless spectator to this drama playing out before her eyes, watched Raoul getting further and further away. She was crushed by shame.

Once the cab had disappeared, Erik turned to his guests with a tone of assumed joviality. "So... and now if you will excuse us, we must get back to put Gustave to bed. This has been a very instructive day."

He took his wife's arm firmly and pulled her inside. As they passed Miss Fleck - if glares could kill, Christine's would have done so - he told her to take the Girys to the apartment.

They got into their vehicle followed by Gustave. The return journey seemed to last for ever.

Propped on his elbows against the window, Erik said nothing, biting his nails, which Christine had never seen him do before. He didn't look at her, his gaze lost in the scene outside.

She sought to catch his eyes, but was afraid to think of what she might find there. Hatred? Rage? Disappointment? All three? But she would have preferred his anger to this cold stoicism.

Something told her, however, that he was waiting for the right moment before turning his attention to her. And she remembered suddenly that this man had killed two people, and that he would not hesitate to use violence. Shame gave way to fear, and she began to count the minutes which separated her from the marital crisis that awaited her...

17 minutes and 23 seconds: the time it took for him to tell Gustave to play outside and to bolt the door.

Then the attack began.

At the outset she remained standing, enduring the tide of wounding words that he hurled in her face. Then after some minutes, beaten down and defeated, she fell all anyhow into a sitting position in an armchair.

She could no longer bear this flood of insults. She had been repeating to herself for the last few days that she did not love Erik, so why did his words bring her so much pain? What was the problem?

But he had not finished with her. Passing behind the armchair, he asked snidely: "And for how long has my wife been unfaithful to me with the Vicomte? She deserts my bed in order to go slumming in another man's sheets, then wants to run off with him under my very nose, and I am supposed to say nothing? Do you take me for an idiot? Do you think me blind? But I had forgotten that my wife was a snake in the grass!"

His hands crept dangerously close to her throat. She had not forgotten how he had killed Piangi and Buquet: by strangling them. Would he dare to kill the woman he claimed to love? In case of doubt, better be cautious.

"Well? How long?"

She felt tears flowing down her cheeks. The icy rage of her husband had given way to an aggression which mounted in crescendo. He was losing control.

"I haven't been unfaithful, I promise you. I swear it - I didn't want to go with him, I was just saying no when you arrived! I've never once been unfaithful since our marriage-"

He came to a halt. She could hear the hiss of his breath in her ear. "Since our marriage? And just what does that mean?"

She took a deep breath before telling him. She could keep the secret no longer.

When she had finished, she heard him pace up and down behind her, then sit down in his turn. She dared not turn.

Finally, he said "I suspected something."

She dared not interrupt for fear that he would not continue further. But he seemed well-launched on his subject.

"I did notice that you were not virgin the first time you... accepted me. I suspected that there was only one man who could have gained your trust. But I had no wish to complicate matters with that... detail."

The conversation was becoming uncomfortable. But she knew that it was not over: she had something else to tell him, something much worse. The secret had been weighing on her far too long, and she knew that if she had not the courage to tell him now, then she would never be able to do it.

"Ten years ago..."

He nodded, without understanding; then froze for a moment. He raised his eyes, sought out her gaze as if to find some denial there, as if she were about to tell him that he had misunderstood. But she said nothing.

"Gustave..."

She nodded, feeling tears prickle in her eyes once more. "He's not your son, Erik. He is Raoul's. I was already with child when we arrived here."

She could clearly see rage snarling and mounting in him. She could see in his eyes the same mad light that she had already observed when he was preparing to commit murder.

Her survival instincts screamed at her to jump up and run. But she did not even reach the door of the room.

Erik caught her, and dragged her by force into the bedroom from which she had been too long absent.


	6. What Else Could I Have Done?

_(A/N: This story was originally published in French about a year ago: I am uploading this translation with the author's permission because I feel that it deserves a wider circulation. Subsequent chapters will be uploaded as and when I finish translating them. Credit for the characters and situations belongs to **Chamidontrachiva**: any infelicities in style are my own!_

_For a link to the original, see my profile. (And for my own Phantom/Love Never Dies stories, see my profile also...)_

**V / What else could I have done?**

Antoinette Giry had found Gustave in tears out in the street, in front of his parents' home. Unable to understand why the little boy dared not go indoors, she had gone to join him in the garden.

He seemed traumatised, and she started by making a fuss of him before asking any questions. She knew from experience that this was much more effective; having more or less brought up Erik before she was yet adult herself had given her all the necessary keys to coping with difficult children.

"Now then, is that better?" she asked, once the tears had calmed down and Gustave's head was against her shoulder.

He sniffed before answering. She passed him her handkerchief.

"Do you want to tell me what happened? Why are you crying?"

Having carefully folded the used handkerchief between his fingers, the child hiccuped: "I was supposed to go and play in the garden like Father told me to, but I wanted to get a toy out of my room. Father and Mother were arguing in the living-room and I listened. Mother said something... awful. I know I shouldn't have been listening at doors, it's not done, but I was frightened, I'd never heard them shouting like that, and Mama was crying, and Papa was furious, and Mamasaidsomethingterrible..." The tears redoubled.

"Come, come... it can't be as bad as all that. Everyone argues sometimes... Tell me what your Mama said that was so terrible."

Gustave gathered his courage and reported: "She said that I wasn't Papa's son at all."

;;

Her train of thought was confused. The worst of it was that she really didn't care. Stretched out voluptuously on the soft bed, she was happy just to lie looking up at the darkened ceiling, her fingers straying caressingly over the motifs on the bedspread.

Erik had left. He had not said a word. Christine thought that he would return at any moment, and so she did not move, observing the growing twilight in the bedroom. Outside, night had fallen, and clouds covered the sky, obscuring the stars and the moon.

_Beneath a moonless sky..._

Strangely enough, she was radiant. A roguish little smile lit up her face and several times she caught herself sighing. Erik had never treated her thus, and she had been struck by a great terror, close to panic. But with the fear now gone, she could remember very well what she had experienced. Something that she had never felt before, even in their most intimate moments. An ardent desire, a sensation so strong that it had taken them both by surprise. Erik had said nothing, and he had left her there. And it was beginning to seem like a long time ago.

Where could he have gone? She could remember very well the moment when he had got up and left her. She had wanted to say something to him, to tell him that she loved him, but he had already disappeared into the darkness. She had heard the door open and then close again... and then nothing more.

Not a sound throughout the whole house.

Her blossoming pleasure wilted. Erik had abandoned her, after what had just happened between them - what a nerve, what selfishness! He had left her discourteously in the deserted house, all alone and still unclad...

A thought flashed across her mind, bringing up short her train of thought: a name she had not thought of in too long.

Gustave.

How could she have forgotten her son, alone in the garden as night fell?

The heavy silence which filled their home told her that he had not come in. She jumped from the bed and flung herself out of the room, pulling on dress, coat and shoes headlong as she went.

"Gustave! Gustave!" She opened doors, overturned furniture, even went so far as to enter her husband's workroom. But there was no sign of her son, nor of her husband.

She went out into the garden, out of breath and panicking, her unbuttoned coat billowing behind her. Night had well and truly fallen on Coney Island, and a freezing cold had fallen over the town. How was she to find her son in these conditions?

A slim silhouette loomed suddenly out of the darkness just as panic was beginning to paralyse her.

"Christine!"

She turned swiftly to see Meg, out in her nightdress; her reddened cheeks bore witness to a long wait in the cold wind. "Oh God, Meg, Gustave... he was.. he was playing outside and I think we forgot about him..."

Meg took her by the arm in an attempt to calm her down.

"Christine, there's no need to frighten yourself like that: he's with my mother, and she's taken him back to our place. I have no idea why she didn't send him back to you straight away, but she only asked me to come and tell you just now. I don't know what she's up to, but I ought to warn you that..."

But Christine was no longer listening: as soon as she had learned where her son was, she ran, eaten up by guilt, to the door of the apartment Erik had offered to the Girys.

A maid (Erik had always refused to have servants, but he would not deprive his guests of them) hurried towards her to relieve her of her coat, indicating where Madame Giry and Gustave were to be found. The contrast in temperature struck her as she passed through the little passages of the house.

Leaving Meg to warm herself near the entrance, she thrust open the double doors of the small salon and crashed into the room.

Madame Giry was sitting near the fireplace, in which a crackling fire was alight. The curtains were drawn, and the dim light barely showed the two who were sitting on the sofa: Gustave, a cup of hot chocolate in his hands, and Raoul, who was looking at him without saying anything.

All heads turned towards the young woman. And by the look that Raoul gave her, she could tell that he knew.

Without needing to be asked, Antoinette Giry took Gustave out of the room after having sent him to kiss his mother. She shut the door behind them.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Christine murmured dully when the silence became too much to bear.

Raoul's back was turned to her now, and he was staring at the floor.

She had a feeling that she had been through this scene already, and she wondered how many more times she would have to apologize for past mistakes. She felt herself to be soiled, lacking in respect towards these two men who loved her and whom she had betrayed each in turn. How was she to look her former lover in the face from now on? And how dared she think of seeing him again after what she had just made her husband undergo? And Gustave. What an unspeakable mother she made!

Each of her thoughts seemed a betrayal of one or of the other. She no longer knew what to do or say, and her mind was made up not to justify herself any more; to let herself be accused. She had done ill and deserved to reap what she had sown. She had earned their scorn.

She abandoned any attempt at excuses: she did not deserve forgiveness.

She was about to put her past with Raoul behind her, to walk out of his life for good before she committed some other blunder, when he turned to her.

There was not a trace of anger or resentment in his eyes - quite the contrary. There was hope, a wild hope which shone there, and before she could nip it in the bud he had got up and come towards her.

"You had your reasons - we had lost touch with one another, Christine, and I can see that it wasn't your fault. How could I blame you, when the one responsible for all our suffering is right there in the house opposite?"

She shook her head vigorously, refusing to put all the blame onto poor Erik. But Raoul displayed no compassion towards his enemy.

"Listen to me... Little Lotte... this revelation of yours hasn't brought me pain - on the contrary. I'd never even dared to think of having a child by you some day, and here you offer me one! It makes things simple: all three of us can flee to Paris. Madame Giry will help us; we can leave this evening. I'll run and buy three tickets for the _Atlantic_, and we..."

But she laid her hands gently on his arm as he gestured. Her face was calm and her expression resolute.

"No, Raoul. I'm truly sorry, I hope that one day you will be able to forgive me, but I can't abandon him here. Not after everything that he has done for me and all the trust he has placed in our marriage. Gustave may not be his son by blood, but he's the one who brought him up. It would be cruel to tear them apart. I've done enough harm already."

She bit her lip, certain that she had to shatter his dreams once again. She was obliged to do it.

She thought of the premiere that was to bring prosperous days to the Theatre. She thought of her big number, in which Erik had been rehearsing her for months. She thought of the marvellous, almost unreal music that he had composed for the occasion - the music that he had offered her. To leave and abandon him like that would be sadism...

Raoul would not understand the strange affection that had grown up between them, but he would understand the need that Erik had - that she had - to unite their musical talents one last time. He had experienced this situation already in Paris - he would understand it.

And so she tried that final argument: "If I leave now, he will never forgive me. I would never be able to face myself in the mirror again. I have to stay at least until the premiere tomorrow evening. I owe him that much. And afterwards... afterwards I don't know what I shall do. I'll let you know."

His eyes implored her, but she didn't give in. It was all she could do not to turn and leave the room.

She thanked Madame Giry in a forced manner: she had been right to let Raoul know, and Christine owed him the truth, but it was not up to Antoinette to do it.

But she could not really hold it against her: she had thought she was doing the right thing. At heart Christine owed her more than she could repay for having pushed her into revealing the secrets that weighed heavily on her. Without her, she would have been condemned to live in fear and falsehood.

Leaving the Girys' house with Gustave, she would not let herself risk a glance back at the closed window of the salon.

Raoul would have to forget her, and draw a line under his dreams of a life together with her and Gustave. It was better that way.


End file.
